


Blades

by the_original_n_chan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, figure skating, possible reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_original_n_chan/pseuds/the_original_n_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, Levi is still fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blades

**Author's Note:**

> The story and characters of _Shingeki no Kyojin_ ( _Attack on Titan_ ) are the property of their original creators. No infringement is intended.

He steps through the gap in the wall. The roar hits him like thunder, spikes his already high adrenaline to an even keener pitch. The faces are a blur as he strokes across the ice, the moment is a blur—

_—the moment before the battle, before the first leap into flight—_

Hands on hips, he glides on an outwardly calm serpentine path, testing the rink, getting oriented within that wide-open space, letting his initial nerves settle. Reaching his starting point at last, he sets his toe pick and coils into a taut crouch, his face still expressionless. He waits for the music to begin.

_—in the distance, screams—_

The music rises, tense and shrill; he rises, unfurling in whipcord motion, fiercely controlled for all its urgency. And as the drums begin, he spins away from the center, launches himself, swiftly gathering speed—

_—thunder of his pulse in his ears, of horses galloping, of heavy, thudding feet—_

Faster now, _faster_ , into the first jump—once, twice, three times, four before his feet touch the ice and then leap again, and then _again_ , while the crowd on all sides bellows like a maddened beast.

_—flying more often than not, the air his refuge, his protection, his one freedom—_

His skates carve the ice in vicious footwork, twin blades flashing, catching light—no playfulness in this, no dance of careless, joyful abandon, but he holds the audience rapt anyway with that violent purposefulness, the intense, explosive power of each movement. He circles wide, the wind whipping at him, raking his hair back from his face, then turns inward into the combination of spins, limbs drawn in tight to increase the speed of his revolutions, then unfolding, his body arching, one leg extended to slash the air as he whirls—

_—to cut out the life of the foe—_

A pause, then a slower passage, a respite to breathe, all too brief, before the tension builds and builds once more, charging toward its climax, before he flings himself into the last blazing series of leaps, reckless-seeming, but his muscles never fail him, and as always he owns the air. The screaming is incessant. A last long spin, the fastest yet, and with each turn he spots on nothingness, the same empty place in the vast stadium. 

And he stops short, as the music is bitten off into silence.

_—gone. You are all—_

Red roses fly down from above, staining the clean, white surface of the ice. Everywhere people are on their feet, cheering, shrieking, slamming their hands together in frantic applause. They are remote, so far away from where he stands now. Neither they nor the TV announcers yammering in their rink-side seat— _“without question the strongest competitor...the only man in the competition to perform a quad-quad-triple combination!”_ —not even the coaches and the other competitors can ever really understand. And he knows that it’s not the artistry of his program that compels them to this frenzy (though artistic it is, flawlessly graceful in its own feral way) nor his connection with the audience (he’s never had the kind of personality that charms people). It isn’t even the sheer physical prowess that no one else can match. It’s the passion, the fury, the raw rage held in check by pure force of will that awes them, that frightens them, deep down inside where they’ll never admit it—that draws them to worship him as humans have always worshipped power, secretly hoping that it will bless them and then pass by, disdaining to destroy them. _For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror_ , as the poet said.

And the greater the beauty, the greater the terror.

_You people...._

_You’ll never know that world of horrors, of brutal endings, of utter and implacable destruction that could strike at any moment. You’ll never live among human beings gnawing each other to death like rats locked in a cage of their own construction. You’ll never see your soldiers, your commanders, your friends devoured by enemies so much larger and stronger and more indestructible than you that hope seems impossible, nothing but a shitty joke, and yet still you must fight._

His eyes narrowing, he stares into the shadows beyond the floodlit rink, into that sea of unknown faces, strangers all. He doesn’t hate them. Maybe he scorns them just a little. But at the same time, even in his pride, he envies them.

_You’ll never know the world I dream of each and every night._

The flowers continue to rain down, red as blood on the battlefield. But for this moment, at least, the fight is won; the monsters in his mind have been overcome, if not the pain. 

And alone on the ice, Levi raises his arms into the air at last, striking a pose of victory and defiance.

**Author's Note:**

> I...don't know why I wrote this, I'm not a huge fan of modern AUs for this series, but the idea hit me—Levi as tiny-but-hot figure skater, blades and then _blades_ —and I had to do it. So flog me for a hypocrite, I guess.
> 
> The quoted poem is "The First Elegy" from Rainer Maria Rilke's _Duino Elegies_.


End file.
